


Last of Your Line

by TheGreyestWarden



Series: Last of Your Line [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Childhood Memories, Cousland (Dragon Age) Backstory, Death, Drowning, Flashbacks, Gen, Human Noble Origin, Minor Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Warden Cousland (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreyestWarden/pseuds/TheGreyestWarden
Summary: After agreeing to join the Grey Wardens in exchange for his lonely survival, Evrion Cousland changes his mind.





	1. Before Ostagar - Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After agreeing to join the Grey Wardens in exchange for his lonely survival, Evrion Cousland changes his mind.

The sound of his parents dying was the last thing Evrion Cousland wanted to hear, but he strained to, just the same. In the tiny silences between boots on the floor of the passage and his panting, he listened for screams, thumps, or the noise of swords clashing; anything that could give him a reason to turn back. He paused, reaching out to brace against the wall, but his hand only found empty darkness. He could swear he was just about to hear something when the Grey Warden scraped to a stop ahead.

“Master Cousland, we need to keep moving,” Duncan urged in a whisper.

Evrion tried to steady his breathing to no avail, after accepting that the wall he was looking for was either too far away or not there at all.

“I know,” he answered unthinkingly, his voice hoarse. Evrion glanced back into the darkness behind him. How long had they been running? Had it even been a minute? It felt both like a lifetime and only a few seconds ago that he left his parents in the larder. The thought that his mother could be overwhelmed by an onslaught of soldiers at this very moment twisted his gut. Evrion could not see the Grey Warden’s face but he could hear the hard look in Duncan’s voice.

“You cannot save them. If you go back, you will die, and their deaths will have been for nothing.”

Evrion felt his teeth grit together and his lips pull back over them. He was deciding between lunging at Duncan, or turning and running back anyway, when the whole passage shook around them. Walls in the castle above were giving, he knew it even though the sounds were muted. Grainy debris trickled off their armor and dust filled the air, burning in his eyes and nose. It was as if his home itself was telling him, _Go, now_. Evrion didn’t fight when Duncan grabbed his arm and pulled him to start running again.

In moments, they pushed through the servants’ exit and out into the night, but they didn’t stop. Eventually the sounds and smells of his home burning faded into crickets chirping and wet underbrush, trees creeping in around them as they made their way into wilderness. In an effort to keep up, Evrion focused on Duncan’s back and pretended this was a game of tag, chasing the Grey Warden rather than simply following. His heart and his legs demanded he stop as they started up the hills that made the Storm Coast, but Duncan wasn’t stopping, so he couldn’t, either. They ran and ran, weaving around trees and boulders for Maker knows how long. Too long, because when Duncan started jogging into a bent over halt at a clearing, it was like Evrion’s body had forgotten how to do anything but run, and he passed the Warden by a few yards before managing to come to a stop.

All at once his body began punishing itself; his legs buckled under him like jelly, knees hitting the ground hard. His lungs felt aflame and on ice at the same time, refusing to take air in while his stomach tried hard to expel contents it did not have. Evrion dry-heaved on his hands and knees for what felt like an eternity before his lungs finally remembered their function and his stomach relented. Panting with a chest that felt like rubber, he pushed his torso up and let his arms fall to his sides, left hand bumping weakly into the pommel of the family sword. The tunnel vision began receding, along with the ringing in his ears.

The view of Highever in the distance slowly filled his sight, the city unusually bright at this hour from the flames of assault. With the bulk of its forces following Evrion’s brother south, the people were surely struggling. The harbor was dotted with lights where those on boats were likely panicking, wondering if they should sail out onto the Waking Sea to safety, or get back to shore and help. From here, Castle Cousland looked like a pile of embers on its promontory, smoke billowing up to kiss the clouds. For all Highever knew, Fergus was the only Cousland left, and he was marching headlong into the massed forces of the darkspawn, and possibly to his death… Unless Howe sent men after Fergus too, and why wouldn’t he, with all the effort gone to destroy the Couslands already? The Teyrn and Teyrna were gone, and Fergus was as good as dead.

 _I’m the only one_ , Evrion realized.

The sound of Duncan walking across the grass reminded Evrion the Grey Warden was there. He forced himself onto his feet, grunting resentfully at his shaking knees, and turned to Duncan with a glare. “We should have stayed and fought!”

Duncan’s eyes were hard as he chose his words carefully. “Your survival was more important to them than their lives,” he said.  “If you had died--”

“Then at least I would have died trying to protect them!” Evrion shouted.

The Grey Warden’s face stayed neutral and he said nothing.

“That was what I was supposed to do, protect them.” Evrion shook as the words poured out of him. “It was the entire reason I’m not marching beside Fergus right now. I was supposed to be there for them, and I couldn’t even get across the hallway to save my nephew, I couldn’t even keep track of my fucking _dog_.” Tears pulled at the back of his eyes to think of his mabari trapped in a burning corridor; Evrion could not remember when or where in the castle he had lost Frostback.

Duncan let out a plaintive sigh through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he began, “But we can still--”

“ _We?_ No, I’m not going with you. I didn’t know what I was thinking back there, agreeing to that.”

Duncan frowned now but kept his voice in check. “You agreed to it, all the same. I’m sorry for what has happened, Evrion, but the darkspawn threat remains a priority.”

“Oh, _fuck_ the darkspawn,” Evrion spat, stepping toward the Grey Warden, “And fuck you, too! You can’t tell me something I’ve never seen is a priority, when that,” he pointed out at Highever, “Is happening right there _._ ”

They held an intense gaze. Up this close, Evrion could see Duncan was clenching his jaw as well. Evrion brought his hand back down to his side in a fist and straightened his back.

“Find a new recruit,” he growled, and headed for the trees.


	2. Before Ostagar - The Beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furious and grieving, Evrion Cousland finds a moment to contemplate his next move under an uncharacteristically calm Storm Coast sky.

Evrion found himself drawn toward the beach. Moving downhill out of the maritime trees was a struggle, his legs protested every step. Halfway down, his ankle betrayed him, and he slid the rest of the way. He cursed and stood, baring his teeth, and limped across the cobbles to a large piece of driftwood on the shore, its branches reaching out as if beckoning. He let his shield and pack drop from his shoulders and took the scabbard from his belt, setting it down carefully. Gingerly, he sat on the cobbles, his back against the base of the driftwood, facing away from home.

Evrion closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the salty sea air filling his mouth. A cry came unbidden as he exhaled. His head rolled back against the driftwood, his chest heaved, and he let the tears he’d been holding back flow freely. He would have howled if not for the exhaustion and the burning in his throat. Instead he wept quietly to the sound of the waves crashing and gulls calling overhead.

When his eyes dried, Evrion stared numbly at the coastline with his wrists limp on his knees. The breeze was cold against his face, and colder still against the wetness of his tears, but not unwelcome. He shifted and straightened his back, suddenly aware of his wounds; the cuts across his sword arm, and the gash on the side of his face, crusted dry already. He pulled his pack towards him, hoping it still held a potion along with everything else. Papers, loose coin, a book, Oren’s toy horse, and a few pieces of jewelry, but no vials. He could have sworn he had at least one. But no, he had given it to his mother. Maker, his mother. He sniffed hard and wiped his eye, careful not to graze the gash, and set the bag aside in defeat.

What now? He couldn’t go back to Highever. Alone and wounded, the only thing he could possibly do for his people now would be to die. And what would they do then, after seeing Howe’s men cut down the youngest son of their lord? Fight to their deaths, probably. They were already fighting, already dying, but Arl Howe was no fool; the teyrnir would be useless to him without its people, so it would be in his best interests to spare as many as possible. The siege would die down, the fires would stop, and the people of Highever would surrender one way or another. They would live the horrors people do when enemy soldiers take control of their streets… but they would live.

It occurred to Evrion that whatever they were going to do with the bodies in the castle (and he refused to delve into the possibilities), they would notice his was missing. His heart went cold, remembering the conversation he had with one of Howe’s men earlier that day.  _You’re the Teyrn’s son, are you not?_ The soldier hadn’t been merely curious; he was confirming a mark. If Howe’s men weren’t searching for him already, they soon would be.

Wincing against the pain, Evrion twisted around to peer over the driftwood. He was alone–for now– but that could change at any moment. He leaned back again. Where could he go? Was anywhere safe for him now? Evrion knew of caves close by, but Howe also knew of them, and would doubtless have them searched. The locals would hide their lord’s son, but that would only put them at risk. There were many other places to run to, many places to hide, but each had a fatal flaw. He had no coin–or little enough that it might as well be none–he would have to rely on the value of his name, but that would expose both him, and whoever helped him.

“Maker’s breath,” Evrion muttered, running his hands through his hair. He pulled them back with a grimace; his curls were filthy with the grime of sweat and blood. He stood up slowly, staying bent behind the driftwood as he stole another glance. Still alone. Still safe. He staggered to where the waves rolled gently over the rocks and squatted to rinse his hair and face. He had forgotten the open wound on his cheek, and when the salt water turned it to fire, he let a low groan escape through gritted teeth. Eyes squeezed tight, he persevered, hearing echoes from his childhood, when he would run to Father with a skinned knee to have it bandaged. “I’m sorry, Pup,” Father would say as he cleaned the wound, “I know it hurts right now, but we’re going to make it all better.” Evrion almost broke. He’d never hear his father call him 'Pup' ever again, and no, nothing could make this all better.

Returned to his hiding place, Evrion dug through his pack again, gathering all the coin he could find. All of it, his entire net worth, fit in the palm of one hand. The Cousland fortune, the castle, the teynir, assets second only to the king… all down to a sovereign, some silvers, and a single sword, in mere hours. His father had talked about how war can take things from you in a flash, but never did Evrion think he meant it literally, or that he would ever experience it himself. As much as Howe wanted Evrion dead, someone could fetch a very hefty price for him, and the thought that it could easily be triple what he held in his hand now made him feel hollow inside.

Again, it came back to where he could go without putting himself or others at risk. And the one idea he’d been avoiding was his best and only option. He would have to go with Duncan. If he went through with the arrangement and became a Grey Warden, his name would lose its value. He would no longer be an eligible heir, no longer a target. He would be politically untouchable. That is, if Duncan were still around, and amenable to second chances.

Face flushed with shame and embarrassment, Evrion put his coin away and shouldered his pack. With his family shield strapped to one arm, and his family sword in the other hand, he trudged back up the slope with a weary, reluctant gait.


	3. Before Ostagar -  Re-Recruitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted and without other viable options, Evrion Cousland returns to the Commander of the Grey, hoping that he hasn't ruined his chance for safe passage to Ostagar.

No sooner than Evrion was back in the forest did he practically walk into Duncan. Exhaustion and darkness worked together to stifle his awareness, and he jumped when he finally noticed, a scant few feet ahead, the figure against a tree. Evrion fumbled with the scabbard in his hand, cursing himself for not belting it sooner; but the figure didn’t move, and the griffon emblem on Duncan’s breastplate caught Evrion’s eye before he unsheathed the blade. 

“Master Cousland,” the Grey Warden greeted him. So, Duncan had followed for a bit, and then waited. Evrion supposed he didn’t have a right to feel annoyed about it, since he’d come looking for the Grey Warden anyway. 

“Duncan,” was all Evrion could respond with at first, his skin prickling. He wasn’t quite ready to apologize; perhaps if he hadn’t just been startled, it would be easier. Obviously, Duncan was already somewhat forgiving, and didn’t think he was a lost cause. “I suppose you can’t call me that anymore.” Evrion added. It was easier than saying ‘Please make me a Warden after all’. 

Duncan’s face softened, like he was relieved, or thankful. He said, “You are still a Cousland, with or without lordship attached.” That was supposed to be comforting. It wasn’t. 

“So that’s it, then?” Evrion slid the scabbard into his belt. “I’m a Grey Warden now?”

Duncan pulled his weight off the tree. “Warden-Recruit is the rank we give to those who commit to the order, but you are not quite a Grey Warden yet. You will complete your joining at Ostagar, should you follow me there.”

Evrion canted his head at that. “You make it sound like I can choose not to.”

“You made it sound like you did.”

Evrion snorted. “Well, clearly, I wasn’t very convincing.”

“No,” Duncan gave him a weary smile. 

Neither was sure what to say next. Thankfully, the crickets chirping and the waves in the distance filled what would have otherwise been silence. It gave Evrion just enough time to remember that he’d actually said ‘fuck you’ to a Grey Warden. The Warden-Commander of Ferelden, even. If his mother knew, she’d have given him an earful. Evrion wished she could. 

He considered saying sorry, just when Duncan held out his palm, offering a poultice.  _ What an interesting personality change, _ Evrion thought. He quickly reconsidered. The Warden-Commander had to be serious, even in crises. When they were looking back on Highever, Duncan had also just run for his life out of a burning castle. And really, nothing he could have said to Evrion in that moment would have been the right thing to say. Feeling the heat rise in his ears, he took the poultice. He gave Duncan his thanks instead of an apology, and set his shield down to apply the poultice to the wound on his face. The familiar, icy sensation of elfroot was an instant relief.

Evrion eyed the laurel wreath painted on his shield, wondering if he’d be required to discard it for one with a griffon. “Warden-Recruit Cousland,” Evrion murmured as he strung it over his shoulder, experimenting with the sound. The words didn’t feel as strange in his mouth as he expected them to. That was almost worse than if they had; not only did that mean this was all real, it meant he was adjusting. He didn’t want to adjust to this. “I think I’d like to be just Evrion for now.” 

“Very well.” Duncan nodded, and glanced in the direction of the closest road. Time to go.

Evrion gave one last look around, almost thankful that Highever and Castle Cousland were not readily visible from here. The sky was brightening with pre-dawn light, glowing a soft blue against the silhouette of the trees. This was it, then. A new day, a new life. Evrion felt this was his official recruitment; in the maritime forest on the edge of the Waking Sea, the early autumn sun about to rise. Not the hasty conversation in the larder, over his dying father. 

“To Ostagar, then.” Evrion said. Duncan would have to forgive his indifference.

The Warden-Commander gestured east. “We’ll go by way of Denerim. If we make good time, we should be at Ostagar in three weeks.”

Maker, three weeks. If they’re fast. Evrion felt like collapsing before they even started. But he did not collapse; instead, he took the first steps of his new life, following Duncan toward the road, away from the coast. He listened carefully to the waves while he could still hear them, and savored each breath of sea breeze. Evrion didn’t know when he’d ever taste home’s air again.


	4. Before Ostagar - Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long walk from Highever to Denerim. Evrion has a lot of time to go over memories and consider another solution, something to make everything better. Or at least stop hurting. TW for suicidal ideation.

It took eleven days to get to Denerim. It took only one for Evrion to start thinking about killing himself.

He was forcing down some bread they’d bought in a nameless settlement, wondering if he’d ever have an appetite again. If he’d ever enjoy anything again. He almost didn’t want to. How could he?  And even if could, what point would there be? 

Then the idea presented itself, gentle as the spotting rain. He didn’t have to do anything; he could just... stop. Die. 

It wasn’t something he’d ever seriously considered--until now. Oh, the idea had crossed his mind in the same way he imagined it crossed everyone’s mind now and again. That impulse, fleeting and quickly quelled, at the top of a cliff that urges you to step over the edge--but that was as far as it had ever gone. He’d always had a future to look forward to, things he planned to do. People he loved, and people who loved him. 

Not anymore. 

He did what younger Evrion would never-- _ could _ never--have done; consider the idea, accept it, and most of all, plan it. Would he be able to do it under Duncan’s nose, or would he have to get away first? How could he do it? 

Then he remembered what it was like to drown. 

_ Seventeen years ago; Evrion is five years old. It’s summer, and he and his family are enjoying the beach outside Highever, as was their lazy afternoon ritual. The sky is bruised pink and purple, and servants are starting up an evening fire, while his parents and their friends talk. His brother is hard at work building a rock castle, and Evrion is alone in the water, waist-deep, swishing the foam with pruned fingers. Mother’s rule is to never go so far that you can’t run to her for a hug at a moment’s notice. But the Waking Sea thinks differently. Evrion doesn’t notice it’s luring him out of hugs reach, and just as someone calls his name, a wave twice his height hits him from behind.  _

_ Evrion isn’t scared. He remembers what he’s been taught; roll with the wave, do not fight it. This wave is especially sinister. It pulls Evrion back hard enough to make him dizzy, and when it finally loosens its grip on him, he can’t touch his feet to the bottom and get his head out at the same time. Panic sets in. His face breaks the surface, and he can barely get a cry out before another wave crashes over him. The water is pulling him farther from shore, and though he knows better, he tries to swim against the current. It’s no use. It feels like his limbs are being pulled at, the waves fighting over him like he and Fergus fight over toys. He feels himself going downward, and his muscles aren’t listening anymore. His lungs let the water in on their own accord. His thoughts go away, and his fear goes with them. It’s almost like falling asleep. _

_ Waking up has never felt so unpleasant. Water bursts out from Evrion’s mouth and nose, burning like fire. The rest of him is ice cold, and his chest feels made of stone. There are people kneeling over him, saying things to him, but he’s too busy learning how to breathe to understand or respond. Evrion is shivering so hard his teeth hurt, and he can’t keep his eyes open. Warmth envelops him, and he knows he is back where he is supposed to be. Mother is hugging him. She’s hugging him tighter than she’s ever hugged him, and she’s crying. _

Mother wouldn’t have to cry this time. She couldn’t. 

In the following days, Evrion did his best to act as normal as possible, to avoid tipping his hand. Or as ‘normal’ as possible for someone in his situation, anyway. If Duncan noticed a change in his demeanor, he said nothing. They did most of their walking in silence, which left Evrion plenty of time to repeat the day of the siege in his mind. When he wasn’t doing that, he fantasized about drowning. 

On the fourth day of their journey, they reached Merridge, a town right off the Imperial Highway. Duncan suggested they find lodging there, as they could use some rest and it looked like a night full of rain. A recruit follows his commander, so Evrion didn’t argue. 

After all, Merridge boasted a large pond.

_ Fourteen years ago; Evrion is eight years old. He’s staring out the carriage window, bored. Father fell asleep about an hour ago, and Fergus is no fun to talk to, so Evrion has opted to watch the scenery. They pass a sign for Merridge Pond, and he wonders why a pond needs a sign. Soon the pond comes into view, and the need for a sign becomes obvious. It’s huge. Evrion’s always thought of ponds as simply puddles with lily pads in them. This pond is the king of ponds.  _

_ Astutely, Evrion murmurs, “That’s a big pond.” _

_ “That’s a lake,” his brother says from across the carriage, “Not a pond.” He’s squinting at Evrion like he’s never seen anyone more stupid. _

_ Evrion glares back. “The sign said it’s a pond.” _

_ “I didn’t see a sign,” Fergus crosses his arms. Fergus always acts like something can’t exist unless he’s seen it personally; especially when his little brother has. It makes Evrion angry.  _ Take a deep breath, count to three, be nice _ , Evrion remembers Nan’s advice. He puts it in practice. “Maybe some ponds are just really big,” he suggests. _

_ The carriage hits a bump, startling Father awake just as Fergus says, “It’s not a bloody pond!” _

_ “Language, Fergus,” Father rubs the sleep from his face. “What are you two arguing about now?” _

_ “Evrion doesn’t know what a pond is.” _

_ “I do, too!” Evrion looks up at their father desperately. “The sign said Merridge Pond, not Merridge Lake!” _

_ “We’re passing Merridge, already?” Father sounds surprised, and glances out the window over Evrion’s head. It’s like he doesn’t know that the carriage keeps moving even while you sleep in it. Pleased, the Teyrn sits back and offers Fergus an apologetic smile. “It actually is a pond, Fergus.” _

_ “What?” Fergus bares his teeth. “No! It’s too big to be a pond!” _

_ Father shrugs. “Some ponds are just really big.”  _

_ Evrion shoots his brother a snide grin, and Fergus slumps back, nostrils flaring. “It’s a lake,” he tries one more time. _

_ The Teyrn can’t stifle a laugh. He puts his arm around Evrion, and nudges Fergus’ leg gently with his boot. “Water is water. Let’s leave it at that.”  _

Merridge Pond looked significantly less impressive to Evrion as an adult, but it would do. ‘Water is water,’ indeed.

Duncan got them a cramped room in one of the taverns. The beds were wretchedly uncomfortable; it was a good thing Evrion wasn’t planning on spending the whole night in his. The Grey Warden took the bed opposite the window, relieving himself of his armor and weapons. Evrion did the same on his side, wondering what he should do with the sword. It wouldn’t be any use except as an identifier to whoever found him, and perhaps some added weight. He opted to leave it. If anyone were to take it, he preferred it to be Duncan. Evrion forced himself to eat dinner, not wanting to give Duncan any hint that something was amiss. 

Night fell, and so did the rain. It came down heavy when they went to bed. Evrion wasn’t sure if he slept; it felt like all he did was lay there, but he couldn’t remember having any thoughts. He remembered the pond when the rain eased into something between drizzle and pouring. He’d always enjoyed walking in the rain. How appropriate, that it would be the last thing he did. 

Evrion put his boots on to the sound of Duncan snoring. If he could feel anything, he’d find that hilarious.  _ I met the Commander of the Grey, and wouldn’t you know it, he snores like a beast.  _ Too bad there’d be no one to tell. Without looking back, Evrion tiptoed gently over their belongings, and out into the night. Merridge slept soundly, and he didn’t encounter anyone on his path. No one was aware of him, and hopefully it would stay that way until the sun came up.

The scent of wet grass filled Evrion’s nose, and his hair and clothes were damp by the time he left the town proper. It reminded him of the times he and Fergus had to run across the grounds of Castle Cousland, looking for shelter from the Storm Coast’s unpredictable skies. They’d huddle close for warmth and watch the lightning scatter across the clouds. When they were older and allowed to leave the keep unsupervised, they’d intentionally go out when a storm was brewing. When was the last time the two of them went storm-chasing? He reached the pond before he came up with an answer. 

He didn’t expect to feel hesitation when he got to the water, but there it was. The pond was calm, unenthusiastic even in the rain. It didn’t  _ want _ him, like the hungry waves of the Waking Sea did. The sea, at least, would meet him halfway, but in this placid pond, he’d have to do all the work himself. A laugh escaped his lips, and he shook his head. This was stupid; he was furious with a pond for not being the sea. It reminded him of the lake argument, and now he knew how Fergus felt. At least a lake might be a little more interested in killing him.

_ “Don’t you ever go in the water alone again, do you hear me!?”  _ his mother’s cry echoed out of time.

That put a stop to Evrion’s laughter. What else was he supposed to do?

A dog barked in the distance, and it brought Evrion back to anger. He was arguing with a pond here, couldn’t they get some privacy? The dog kept on barking, as dogs do, and Evrion closed his eyes and buried his hands into his hair.  Merridge was turning out to be a poor choice for this. Why hadn’t he thought of killing himself back on the Storm Coast? He bid himself to focus. 

_ 12th of Kingsway, 9:30 Dragon; the day the Couslands were slaughtered. Four days later, Evrion Fearchar Cousland was found dead in Merridge Pond. _ Sweet Andraste, did that sound dreadful. Mostly for half of it being true already.  _ Do it or don’t, that first half will always be true, _ Evrion told himself, and that was enough. Ignoring the barks and the pond’s lack of passion, he lowered his hands into fists, and walked into the water.

Evrion was barely ankle-deep when something more than half his size bowled him over. He landed on his side, drenched in an instant. Murky pond water filled his mouth. He resented that too; salt water tasted better. He rolled and propped himself up on his knees, sputtering, mud in his eyes. A dog barked in his ear; the same dog he heard earlier. It was jumping around him, sending more water into his face. Evrion put his hands up, trying to shield himself, dodging dog kisses. 

“Stop it! Stop!” he demanded. The dog obeyed instantly.

“You blasted, bleeding mutt,” Evrion spat, wiping his eyes. At any other time, he’d delight in a dog wanting to play with him, but now? “You couldn’t come at a worse time,” he lowered his hands to glower at it. Familiar brown eyes met his, and Evrion felt his heart in his throat.

It was a mabari.  _ His _ mabari. 

“Frostback?” Evrion breathed, and the dog let out a high-pitched whine, bouncing on his forepaws with small splashes. Alive, after all. Evrion’s jaw trembled. “Frostback,” his voice squeaked.

Evrion’s vision blurred. When he opened his mouth to speak, it came out a wordless roar, his entire body shuddering with the screams he had been holding back since Highever. He screamed for Oren, for Oriana, for Aldous, for Nan and Gilmore. For Fergus, who was surely dead by now. Even for Frostback, who was sitting right in front of him. He doubled over in the water, the screams tailing off into a cacophony of sobs and laughter at his own ridiculous, unwanted survival. He covered his face with his hands, tears and snot flowing between his fingers, venting his grief until his gut heaved with bile and he gagged, almost vomiting.

Frostback pushed him upright with a nudge of his head, and licked Evrion’s ear. Evrion lowered his hands, coming down from hysterics. Soaking wet, tears streaming, he felt utterly pathetic. But Frostback gazed back at him with unwavering adoration. He lapped at Evrion’s face with that aggressive mabari affection; finally, something that still mattered. How could Evrion kill himself when another living creature loved him so completely, so unconditionally? He pulled Frostback close against him and buried his face in the fur of the mabari’s neck. Frostback stank of ashes, blood, and wet dog, and somehow, it was the best thing Evrion had ever smelled.


End file.
